by Ellie Hall
“Oh really? Well, that’s great. Where?”
I stirred the salad fast enough to bruise the lettuce. “He took it to the auction.”
“Good grief. Who ended up buying it?”
“Beckett Graham?” I stated it like a question.
Ruby shook her head. “How in the world did he get Beckett to buy a chariot-racing llama?”
I cleared my throat. “He might have started the bidding and pretended like he really, really wanted that llama for himself.”
Ruby laughed. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Yeah. I really wish I could’ve seen the look on Beckett’s face when he got a hold of his new llama. Ford had been talking up about what a unique animal it was to own and how he couldn’t wait to have it at his house. So you know Beckett couldn’t resist that. He loves to steal things out from under Ford. It’s amazing how Ford is such an honorary Boone. He moved here and stepped into that feud like nobody else.”
“So true,” Ruby replied. “It’s almost like he was born and raised here. What do you bet we’ll see Beckett Graham racing the chariot llama through town one of these days?” she asked.
“Nah, he wouldn’t go that far. He’ll probably try to offload it onto someone else.”
“Are you sure about that?” She grinned. “Because if I know Beckett, he’s going to want to make it look like he meant to own that llama. You know he’ll never let it go.”
“I hadn’t even thought of that,” I said with a groan. “Now we’re all stuck with that llama for the rest of our lives as long as we live in Boones-Dock.”
“At least we’ll have some good entertainment,” she added.
“And lots of insurance claims. And possibly someone suing someone else. Probably Ford suing Beckett,” I said as I popped an olive in my mouth while Ruby stole a crouton out of the bowl.
“That would not surprise me one little bit. Do you suppose the courts see a Boone or a Graham name and just toss the file in the trash and pretend like they never even saw it?”
“I wouldn’t doubt it for a minute. What judge in their right mind would want to handle a case between a Boone and a Graham?”
“Aren’t you glad our last names aren’t that?” she asked. “We’ve had enough trouble getting to where we are now without having to be feuding.”
“I agree,” I replied. “I make enough dumb choices without even having that last name.”
“Yes, you do,” she said. She folded her arms across her chest and looked at me with a raised eyebrow.
“I wonder how many people Beckett will run over with his chariot...” I said, trying to distract her from my dumb choices. “I guess he has to find one first.”
She shrugged, allowing my abrupt subject change. “If he can’t find one, he’ll build one.”
“That’s painfully true, isn’t it?”
“And there’s nothing we can do about it,” she said with a sigh.
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” I said as I pulled out a carton of tomatoes. “We could always sell tickets.”
“Now there’s a thought.” She grinned. “But then we’d end up having to find a second chariot-racing llama.”
“I already found a Facebook group,” I told her.
“No! You’re not serious!” She leaned forward and rested her pointed chin in her hands.
“Deadly serious. And so are the people who race their llamas.”
Ruby shook her head. “Will wonders never cease?”
“I’m just glad it’s not our problem anymore.”
“You know, you were very good at making your problem become my problem. How did you manage that?”
“Through very careful conniving,” I admitted. “I knew the only way I’d get you to give me the time of day would be to bring an animal problem to you.”
“You’re horrifyingly more deceitful in your old age.”
“I’ve been spending too much time with the Boones,” I confessed.
“Better be careful, or you just might end up in the middle of a war you don’t want any part of.”
“Don’t I know it. Mrs. Graham asked me which side of the church I was going to sit on.”
Ruby cackled. “Too late. You’ve been dubbed feuding worthy.”
“I’m going to pass up the wonderful opportunity and keep living my very normal life.”
“There’s no such thing as a normal life in Boones-Dock,” Ruby teased.
“Scary how true that is. But I’m glad you and I can spend the rest of our lives together in the place. It’s kind of special, isn’t it?”
I pulled her close, wondering what she thought of my comment about us spending our lives together. She just smiled and rested her hand on my chest.
“Wait, where’s the argument?” I asked.
“No argument from me,” she said with a grin. “You’ve wasted a couple years that we could have been together. All because I posted a picture of me and my cousin.”
“Well, how am I going to make it up to you now?” I set down the bowl of salad I’d been mixing.
Ruby drummed her fingers against the countertop. “What an excellent question.”
She pushed the salad bowl farther to the middle of the island and lifted herself up to sit on the counter. I tried to keep a serious face, but it was difficult when she was now eye level with me and the perfect height for some of my favorite activities.
I stepped between her knees and placed my hands on either side of her. Her little grin was irresistible. I wanted to take my time counting the new freckles on her cheeks as I kissed those pink lips.
She wanted the same thing, given the way she kissed me first.
Connect with Carina Taylor
Carina Taylor writes zany romantic comedies to make you ugly laugh.
When she's not writing, you can find Carina chasing after her four kids, ignoring her laundry pile, pretending to work out, drinking large amounts of coffee, and dreaming up the next story.
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Baby You Can Drive My Car
Gigi Blume
Our new driver is a hot, scowly grump. Emphasis on the grump. And the hot. It's been war since day one between us. I just hope I survive the battle before falling into those deep, scruffy dimples or those black-as-sin eyes. Basically, I'm toast.
1
ENRIQUE
No barf in the back seat. Let’s add that to the list of things I never thought I’d be thankful for.
Especially not on my first day as a business owner. Not in my new limo. Not right before I consult with my new client. An important client.
I’m on my way to meet with Matthew Madison of Madison Luxury Hotels. This is big. I can’t screw it up. I should have spent the morning putting another waxy shine over the sexy black finish of the limo. I love this car more than I’ll ever love a woman. But a friend called in a favor. “Do this one job,” she said. “One hour,” she said. “You’ll like the client.”
Then the client, a petite, doe-eyed young woman, almost puked right on my beautiful leather seats just as we were pulling up to the biggest mansion in Bel Air. Maybe the grand scale of it made her want to hurl. At least she’s gone now. Crisis averted.
My phone rings. It’s my little sister who will be my second client of the day. She’s performing tonight at a fancy Hollywood thing and there’s no way I’ll let her drive that carcacha she loves so much.
“Don’t even try to weasel your way out of a ride, tonight,” I yell into the speaker. I don’t need to shout because this car has state-of-the-art Bluetooth tech, but I do anyway. I’m turning into my dad.
“Good morning to you as well, Kiki,” she chirps using my pet name which only slightly annoys me. “So lovely to hear your voice. I’m doing great. Thanks for asking.”
Only Francesca. She’s too nice even when people bark at her. Another reason why I never want to let her out of my sight. With seven older b
rothers it’s a small wonder she even gets to leave the house, let alone do whatever acting-singing stuff she does. Mama indulges her too much.
I grunt. “What’s up... Panchita?”
“Soooo charming,” she says. She’s such a Pixar princess. “Anyway, I was actually hoping you’d come early. I want to go over my song with the musicians before guests arrive at the Gala.”
I go over my schedule in my head. This meeting with Mr. Madison shouldn’t take too long. I can still get in a quick workout.
“Okay. See you at five.”
“Four,” she says.
“Four. Got it.” So it will be a mini workout. It’s all good. I’ll just do arms.
I hear the muffled voice of my mom in the background shouting something in Spanish.
“And Mom says to pick up Tia Lucy on the way over. They’re making Rosca de Reyes tonight.”
I sigh. A tiny workout, then. I can get in a fifteen-minute cardio sesh. Francesca senses my frustration. She knows I didn’t start my limo service so I can drive all my cousins and aunts around Los Angeles. Tia Lucy has a huge truck. She can drive herself. But I know she wants to impress her neighbors so I told her she could cash in on one limo ride from me. Why she doesn’t save it for a special occasion is a mystery only known to crazy Tia Lucy.
“I’m sorry,” says Francesca. “I tried to run interception for you but you know how they are when they get an idea in their heads.”
“I know. See you at four thirty.”
“Four!”
I laugh and disconnect the call before my mom makes any more demands.
It’s a bright, sunny day for January—unseasonably warm even for L.A. The midday sun sparkles off the gleaming surface of the Madison Towers Hotel, promising to blind out the competition just by existing. I’ve heard only their Manhattan sister property rivals this one. I also hear that’s where Mrs. Madison keeps her residence—unless of course Mr. Madison is in New York. Then she jets off to someplace tropical that serves martinis poolside.
I pull around the back to the VIP garage as instructed in my contract. This is where I’ll be picking up the big wigs and financial partners of the Madison conglomerate. It’s also a heavily guarded entrance for celebrities and politicians. I flash my badge and the guard lifts the gate for me. My heart pounds as I take the parking spot reserved for me. ME! This is getting real. I’m a good fifteen minutes early so I take an extra moment to run a lint roller over my suit. It’s a simple uniform but classy—something I’d picked out for myself in case I needed it for a non-work thing like a wedding or the hundreds of quinceañeras I’m obligated to attend to represent the Precio Family. My brothers and I always turn heads when we walk into a church—like the guys in Reservoir Dogs. Mom’s all about making an impression which isn’t hard when all four-foot-eleven of her is flanked by six imposing men in suits. She likes to stop in doorways like a mob mom—arching a brow at any onlookers while the seventh son, Memo, floats in wearing his white priestly robes, shaking hands, smiling, kissing babies. Mom’s favorite son. If it weren’t for my brother Memo and his vow of poverty, people would begin to gossip that the Precio Brothers were infused in the Mexican Mafia. Maybe they do anyway. It’s a matter of respect in these communities.
I finish with the lint roller and check my teeth in the rear-view mirror when something catches my eye. Four burly security guards restrain an even burlier man who might just be the Incredible Hulk incarnate—if the Hulk was Sylvester Stallone’s taller brother and inclined to leather jackets and tight jeans. He’s roaring and cussing—spit flying out of his mouth with such force I worry about my paint job for a second. The guards wrestle him into submission, getting closer to my car than I’m comfortable with. Hello, shiny, sexy wax job. They don’t see me, though and I’d like to keep it that way. I check my watch.
Freaking A, this better not make me late.
Finally the Hulk guy shakes off the guards and storms into the alley giving them the bird without looking back. Glad I missed that altercation.
I wait for the guards to leave before heading up the glass elevator which shoots straight to the penthouse. I’m one of the few people not directly employed by Madison Corp. with a fob for this elevator. It’s pretty freaking cool.
I’m deposited into a vestibule of sorts which is roughly the size of my entire apartment. There’s a small, extremely hard sofa and a couple of sleek chairs where I sat to sign the contract a week ago.
I check the time. Five minutes early. Good. I go over to sit on the uncomfortable sofa, my butt inches from touching the rock-hard seat cushion, when Mr. Madison’s assistant blasts through the double doors, high heels clicking fiercely over the parquet floor. She’s a sleek woman in her late forties—always the picture of confidence and control in designer pencil skirts and perfectly coifed hair. She’s the last person of contact before meeting with Madison himself and presents herself as such with equal parts grace and ice. If I didn’t know she’d had work done I’d even go so far as to say she’s an attractive woman. Right now though, I can tell by her intense frown that something’s amiss. It would take a heckavalot to downturn that much plastic.
She sees me (mid-squat) and halts. “Oh, Mr. Precio. I’m so relieved you’re here.”
I straighten, flashing her my most charming smile. It’s my best feature and I can’t help but use it to my advantage around powerful women. It’s a self-preservation tactic, I guess.
“You can call me Enrique.” I nod respectfully and I can tell the exact moment when her eyes snag on my signature dimple wink. She clears her throat and rolls her shoulders back just enough to assert her position.
“Very good. Unfortunately something’s come up which demands Mr. Madison’s immediate attention. I’ve been charged to instruct you to wait for him in the garage.”
Ay que la fregada.
“Does he need me to drive him somewhere? He hadn’t mentioned it.”
Actually, he hasn’t given me any kind of schedule at all. I thought that’s what today’s meeting was about.
“I’m sorry, I don’t have any other information for you right now, Mr. Precio.”
“Enrique.”
She ticks her head. “Yes of course. All I know is that you are to wait in the garage.”
Right. Dismissed from the penthouse.
I’m ushered out with a wave of her arm like those people who give too-long speeches on awards shows. She waits for me to enter the elevator and pushes the G button lest I get any ideas to make a pit stop at the buffet.
It’s here I realize I don’t even know her name and, for some reason that triggers my flirtatious instincts. I think I’ll call her Judy. I bring my pinky and thumb to my face and mouth the words “call me” just as the doors slide shut. In the minuscule second there’s only a sliver of an opening left, a crack of a smile forms on Judy’s lips.
Twenty minutes later I’m leaning against Black Beauty scrolling mindlessly on my socials and bored out of my mind. I could be on my way to the gym by now. Free weights, maybe a few minutes on the treadmill. Shower. Protein shake. Pick up Tia Lucy with enough time for her to show off in front of her neighbors. Meet Francesca. Disapprove of her dress and wait for her to change into something with a high neckline and ankle-length hem. Drive her to the same Bel Air mansion I dropped off Barf Girl. Go to the movies by myself. Resist popcorn.
I’m roused by the arrival of the elevator car. Doors swish open and out walks Mr. Madison in his usual crisp business suit. He’s followed by two security guys who stand as sentinels, holding the doors open for a woman giving more attention to her phone than anything else. I slip my own phone in my pocket and stand at the ready near the limo passenger door. All eyes are riveted on this woman. She’s all apathetic casual as she reluctantly saunters out of the elevator like there are a million other places she’d rather be. She’s shabby and glamorous and high fashion all at once. The world is her own personal catwalk. And as she steps into my direct line of vision, I recognize her. January
Madison. Hollywood socialite and heiress to the Madison fortune. Nobody has any idea what she really does other than toss her blond hair for the paparazzi. I’ve never really paid much attention to those things. But seeing her in person I can see why the cameras love her. She has got to be the most effervescently, beautiful, breathtaking woman I’ve ever seen. She glows. She very well might be a goddess, which quite frankly is against my religion to believe. But I’m ready to believe it as her eyes fall over me in a blatant once-over of my entire body. (Thank you, gym membership.) Her gaze dawdles on my chest for a moment before moving down. I forget myself. My tongue is lodged in my throat. My signature dimple-wink escapes me. I think this may be love at first sight—until she opens her mouth.
“Where’s the Bentley?”
Mr. Madison grumbles, “We gave the Bentley to Thomas, my dear. As a retirement gift.”
“So why didn’t you buy another Bentley? I can’t be seen in this.”
She pulls a sour face at my car. My perfectly sexy car. My brand-new gorgeous Cadillac.
Mr. Madison clears his throat and addresses me. “Do you have any Bentleys in your fleet, Mr. Precio?”
My fleet? I ain’t got no stinkin’ fleet. I saved up for three years to buy this one. What do I say to a question like that without looking like a dummy? “Not at this time, sir, but I will take a note of that for our next purchase.”
Do I sound like a professional business guy and not like a payaso? No, I didn’t think so, either.
“You hired a rent-a-limo? Seriously, Dad.”
“We have an exclusive contract with Enrique,” says Mr. Madison, then turning to me adds, “It’s well maintained, isn’t it?”
“Less than a week old, sir.”
“There we have it. No one else has sat in that backseat, January.”
Other than my mom, about twenty of my cousins, and that girl who almost barfed, of course.